The two women drove into the beautiful city of Perpignan to visit the consulate. Vera was anxious to glean any news of the Scots contingent in the International Brigade. The staff were sympathetic but not very helpful.
‘All international soldiers will be told to leave shortly. The war is not going well for them. Many injured have been deported already, so I don’t see how we can find Mr Lennox… a bit of a needle in a haystack, I’m afraid. Anyway, it’s now illegal for British citizens to enter the war. Go home, ladies, you’d do better to wait for news from the Scottish Red Cross… It’s a waste of time crossing into Spain at the moment. Go to the border, if you must, or to the station and ask there. Trains go straight to Paris with some of the troops.’
Vera slumped in her chair in tears. ‘I haven’t heard from him for months. What can I think?’
‘Perhaps there’s news waiting for you back home. This city is full of spies, fraudsters promising safe passage, making false promises for a fee, then vanishing into the hills. Go home, ladies.’
Flora felt patronised, but the consul spoke the truth in many ways. This was a wild goose chase, if ever there was one, and they were out of their depth. Helping Vera come to terms with this disappointment was not going to be easy, though. At least they had registered details of Sandy so if anything was discovered, they would be informed, but it felt like a forlorn hope.
Her first task was to cheer her sister up. ‘Come on, let’s find a restaurant and explore the city while we’re here. We can make our way back slowly. The consul is right. There may be news waiting at home.’
Vera was rummaging in her bag. ‘I did get something from the Republicans in Glasgow. They said there is a friendly restaurant somewhere in the city. I’ve got the address in my bag.’ She fumbled around until she found a slip of paper: The Continental Bar, Place Araga. Comrades meet there and we might hear some news.’
It was a smoky, crowded bar and their entrance was noticed. No one spoke, until Vera marched up to the bar with a snapshot of Sandy.
‘Ecossais, mon mari…’ The men shook their heads, suspicious of them both. There was no point in staying any longer. A black-eyed waitress followed them out.
‘Many men pass through. Give me that photograph to pin on the board. I can ask… I like the Scotsmen. They can drink the bar dry but it is not going well for them, many are leaving.’
They found another, quieter, restaurant in which to lick their wounds of disappointment. ‘If only there was someone else to ask.’ Vera brushed her hair off her face, shaking her head, defeated.
‘There’s always Maudie Wallace,’ Flora suggested. ‘She is out in Spain somewhere. We can write to her. It’s a long shot, but Maudie is our best bet.’
Vera shrugged her shoulders. ‘Even I know Spain is a huge country. Maudie could be anywhere.’
‘She’s with the Swiss White Cross and they’ll be close to all the action.’
‘What a waste of time this has been. I’m sorry, we should never have come.’
‘At least we’ve got close to the border, had a restful stopover by the sea and had time together. It’s a beautiful area. I wish we could explore more.’
‘If you say so,’ Vera replied.
Flora decided to change the subject. ‘Let me tell you something very strange. When we were in Collioure, I saw a picture of a rose-pink villa. I’m sure it was the very place I stayed at on the Riviera in 1919. You know, where I met Kit Carlyle, before he died… all history now.’ Flora didn’t want to go into any more details.
‘The painting was done by a chap called Carstairs and I’m sure it was the very place. It upset me at first, so I didn’t buy it. Thinking about it later, I decided to go back and bargain for it. After all, why shouldn’t I have a memento of those days? So, I went back, but it wasn’t in the window. I presumed it had been sold, but the owner said the artist had removed it himself. He decided it was not for sale as soon as he heard someone recognised it, so he just took it away. What do you make of that? I asked for his address, but the owner didn’t know it. All he said was that he’s a funny chap, and a bit of a recluse, and that it would be best to leave him alone. That he went out on some secret missions with the local priest.
‘The owner offered me some of his other work but I only wanted the Rose Villa. It’s puzzled me ever since. Why would an artist put it up for sale one minute and then change his mind the next? What was so off-putting about my interest in it?’
‘Who knows, Flo? The artists I’ve met are a law unto themselves,’ Vera replied. ‘One less thing for us to take home.’
‘Do you want to leave now?’ Flora said in surprise at this turnabout.
‘Yes, no point in staying.’
‘We could explore a bit longer, as we’ve only just reached the coast.’ Flora was finding the landscape dramatic and interesting.
‘It’s too hot and dusty and it’ll take days to drive back north. We’ve delivered the boxes. There’s nothing for me here.’
Flora was disappointed and reluctant to leave now. That painting had unsettled her, reminding her of the light and warmth of the Riviera and the love that might have been. She thought of Maudie Wallace somewhere in danger, and of the poor, foot-weary peasants trundling along the highways in rags. Who was the strange artist, Carstairs, who didn’t want to share his rose-pink villa with anyone?
*
Kit wrote to Sam O’Keeffe, as promised.
It’s so crowded here with tourists, refugees and security men that I’ve not done much work except transport food and blankets to those who are on foot. There are so many small children being dragged over the mountains. Many have no parents and are collected up by strangers. I fear for their safety and health. Would it be possible for you to take in some more? Winter is coming and this is no place for shoeless orphans. Father Antoine has sent some to the nuns, but there’s not enough room for all of them.
Our provisions are running low and I am tempted to write to a newspaper with a description of conditions here. I fear it will get worse once the floodgates open. There must be generous people in Britain prepared to help. It’s at times like this that I realise what a huge mistake I made all those years ago in hiding my identity. I can never forgive myself, but it is too late now, so I will write under this name. Although it has served me well, subterfuge no longer sits easy upon me.
Only the other week a woman came into the gallery and recognised the Rose Villa convalescent house. She seemed very interested but I couldn’t bear to part with it and took it off the wall. I keep it in my room, to remind myself of my perfidy. My stock of work is dwindling rapidly, but I sell enough to keep a shirt on my back. Father Antoine is the first priest I have warmed to since the old padre in our battalion. I told him I had no faith, but, like Dr Ortega, he just smiled, saying that I must think things through for myself from now on. He is devout, but in a way that feels honest. Love is not what we say, but what we do. I thought of Flora and the Suffragettes, ‘Deeds not words.’
I feel I have a purpose here, something I’ve not felt for years. There are rumours that the Civil War will soon be over but heaven help those on the wrong side. I fear a bloodbath. Let me know what you think about my idea? Consuela would be such a mother to these weary little ones…
Kit was glad to have kept in touch with his old friend and he had kept his word not to drink, tempting though it was when he was tired, alone and wondering how they would fund their next vanload of supplies. True, also, to his word, he wrote a detailed letter to the London Times, the Glasgow Herald and the Manchester Guardian, describing the fate of innocent victims of war. After the bombing raids on Guernica, readers would be in no doubt about the suffering of millions in Spain, on both sides. Whether it would be fruitful or not he didn’t know, but it was an effort worth making. He signed himself Christopher Carstairs, with a poste restante address, and also added Father Antoine’s details for good measure. All he could do was wait and see if there was any response. For the first time in years, he prayed that aid would come, and soon.